


Slow

by NeriEsle



Series: The Real Events of Series 4 [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Missing Scene, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 05:16:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9533375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeriEsle/pseuds/NeriEsle
Summary: Angelo returned with a candle, which he placed reverently in the center of the table.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Another missing scene from Series 4, after The Lying Detective, before The Final Problem.
> 
> This definitely happened.

The sitter was late, the tube was delayed, it started pouring the minute he stepped outside, and by the time he reached Angelo’s, his shoes and jacket were soaked. Yet as soon as the restaurant door closed behind him, silencing the rain and engulfing him in a soft golden glow of candles and dimmed lighting, John felt himself relax. And when he spotted Sherlock sitting at the table by the window where they’d sat the night they first met, John smiled.

Sherlock was texting furiously, frowning at his phone. He looked up as John approached and put his phone away.

“Sorry about that. Sitter was late,” John explained, sliding into his seat against the window.

“Ah yes, the seventeen year old aspiring singer with newly pink hair and a slight obsession with British boy bands.”

John shook his head, unable to suppress a chuckle. “I’m not even going to ask.”

“Please do.”

“Let me guess,” John said, pulling his jacket off and hanging it on the back of his chair. “Lestrade hasn’t caved.”

“ _Probation_ ,” Sherlock scoffed. “As if I was actually under his employ. Probation for sixty days!”

“Hmm, more like fifty-seven by now, isn’t it?”

“More like an eternity,” muttered Sherlock as Angelo bustled over. The proprietor's face broke into an enormous grin when he saw them.

“Sherlock, Doctor Watson,” Angelo greeted, barely containing his glee. “So wonderful to have you back, it’s been far too long.” His grin sobered, and he bowed his head slightly toward John. “I did hear about Mrs. Watson, Doctor, and let me say that I am so… _terribly_ sorry for your loss. Truly. If there’s anything you need, anything at all… a good meal delivered to your place… you be sure to let me know.”

“Thank you,” John said, touched. He glanced at Sherlock, who watched John with a piercing gaze. “A good meal sounds fantastic right about now.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked, and he broke the gaze to look down at his menu. “Pinot Noir while we decide?”

“Right,” John agreed. “Also… our table doesn’t have a candle.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock look up from the menu.

Angelo paused, then smiled in delight. “Won’t be a moment.”

John sighed contentedly, and turned to meet Sherlock’s stare. “What?”

“Are you okay?”

The echo of the same question from two days’ before was not lost on John, who took a moment to marvel at how much his answer had changed in such a time. “Right now, yes. I think so.”

Sherlock’s shoulders relaxed a bit on a long exhale. “Good.”

Angelo returned with a candle, which he placed reverently in the center of the table, and set two wine glasses before Sherlock and John. Once he’d filled their glasses and took their orders, John lifted his glass. “Happy birthday,” he toasted.

Sherlock blinked. “My birthday was two days ago. We had cake. You were there.”

“Yes, but I’d got snot and tears all over your dressing gown, and the next day Rosie vomited all over you. So I’m celebrating until one day goes by where your dressing gown isn’t ruined by a Watson.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock smiled into his wineglass. “There have been worse things on my dressing gown.” When John choked on his wine, Sherlock hastily corrected, “Chemical experiments, John. Bile and blood and mucus and- ”

“All right, yes, thank you,” John interrupted, his face red from coughing. “Jesus, no need to recount everything.”

“You have the mind of a hormonal teenaged boy.”

“Remind me to never let you hold Rosie while wearing that dressing gown.”

“It was good to see her,” Sherlock murmured, turn his wine glass slowly on the tablecloth, his long, pale fingers twisting the stem.

“She missed you,” John agreed.

Sherlock was quiet while John watched him, waiting. After a long moment, Sherlock finally said, “I am glad that you are okay right now.”

“What about you?”

“Me? I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I mean… your… ribs and kidneys and… face,” John gestured, looking away, feeling his face grow warm and the oily sensation of shame sinking into his gut. “That was… definitely one of my bad days.”

“Oh… that. Please, John, I’ve had worse beatings.” At John’s sharp look, Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it, then clarified, “She… the Woman. Had a rather strong grasp of the riding crop.”

“Ah.”

“And wonderful drugs.”

“Mm.” John took another, longer sip of his wine. He nearly finished the glass before putting it down. The familiar burn threatened in his stomach, and he felt his mood take a precarious yet small drop. A whisper of the feelings that had overwhelmed him every night for the past several weeks tickled the back of his mind. The burn of whiskey in his esophagus, the numbing of all senses except pain, the feeling of sinking in quicksand with nothing to grab onto… all were held back by the tiniest string.

A few weeks ago, even a few days ago, he’d have poured more wine. Drank the whole bottle himself, probably. And gone out for more.

Until two days ago, when he’d stayed sober with Sherlock, rather than flee back to his house to drown his grief. Instead, he’d lit himself on fire by baring his soul, and Sherlock had slowly doused the flames with his acceptance and love.

Letting go of the wineglass and crossing his arms in what he knew was a defensive posture, but he simply couldn’t help it, John took a deep breath. “Did you tell her?”

“Tell her what?”

“What I told you to tell her.”

“I don’t need to tell her anything, John. There’s nothing to tell.”

“You saved her from execution. From Moriarty. You grieved when you thought she’d died. You must feel _something_ for her.”

“I suppose I do,” Sherlock said, taking another sip of wine. John noticed it was a rather long sip. “She’s interesting. Clever. One of the few not-boring people on the planet. And I feel sorry for her. She’s… solitary. In a way I… used to want to be. At one time

I’d have admired how she made her way in the world.”

It made sense, in a way, John thought as Angelo returned to their table with their food. Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler. Two strange, lonely creatures. Far too clever for their own good, and guilt-free when manipulating people.

Although… that wasn’t quite true anymore, for Sherlock. John was nearly certain of that. Sherlock was strong, physically. He could take care of himself. John had seen him nearly snap Mycroft’s arm off when high as a kite. And yet… John’s still-bruised knuckles and Sherlock’s stitched face were proof that Sherlock had chosen not to fight back at the morgue. He’d accepted John’s anger. Welcomed it.

John wasn’t sure where his train of thought was taking him. Once Angelo left, he pressed on, “She likes you. She’s still texting you, after all these years. Why not give it a go with her?”

“Because I don’t want to, John,” Sherlock sighed. “There are other people I’d prefer to spend my time with. More to the point, I doubt we’d make it a week in each other’s company before one of us attempted to murder the other.” He picked up a fork, and prodded at his risotto half-heartedly. “I think she’s clever.”

“You must care for her though.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Possibly.”

“Did you… did she also know…” John cleared his throat, needing yet hating these questions.

“Irene Adler had no knowledge that I faked my death. Nor have I seen her since returning. Nor do I have any real desire to.” He looked up to meet John’s eyes.

“Do you love her?” John asked.

“No, John.”

“Hmm.” John picked up his fork and shoveled a great pile of penne into his mouth. “Could have just said so earlier. Saved yourself the interrogation.” He was suddenly _ravenous_.

Sherlock chuckled, and began tucking in as well.

A few minutes passed in silence, where they just ate. Then John paused. “But did you -”

“No.”

“You… not even when you went to rescue her?”

“Even if I’d wanted to, it really wasn’t an ideal place for that. Timing, as you constantly remind me. We were a bit preoccupied with escaping before more terrorists arrived.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Not quite. Very straightforward. Run until you’ve outrun them. No rooftop leaps or cabbie chases. Dull.”

John laughed. “Only you would call running from terrorists dull. Try running at them.”

“Not really my area.”

John grinned at the memory.

_“Girlfriend? No, not really my area.”_

He shook his head. “There’s nothing new under the sun.”

Sherlock’s smile faded. “What?”

“I just… was remembering the first conversation we had in here. The night we met. Remember?”

“Of course I remember.”

“I asked if you had a girlfriend, and you said you were married to your work.”

“I believe I said girlfriends were not really my area, and that I didn’t have a boyfriend.”

“And that you were married to your work.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said slowly, picking up his wine and taking a long sip. He put the glass down and twirled it slowly on the tablecloth. “I’m not sure that’s completely accurate.”

“How d’you mean?”

“I wouldn’t call myself married to my work these days.” Sherlock frowned at his wine glass as he slowly turned it. John stared, hypnotized, at the gently swaying liquid in the glass barely slosh at Sherlock’s gentle movements. “That would make me a rubbish godfather, wouldn’t it?”

The spell was broken, and John grinned. “No crime scenes for Rosie until she’s at least thirty.”

“Forty.”

“No boyfriends until forty. And they’ll all have to be vetted by both of us and Mycroft.”

Sherlock smiled, his eyes crinkling. “Oh yes. His constant interfering must be good for something.”

John smiled, and there was a few more moments of comfortable silence as they enjoyed their meals. Then he said, “Girlfriends must be vetted, too.”

Sherlock nodded. “Of course.”

John gave a curt nod, then went back to his food. He could feel Sherlock watching him. “My father was appalled when Harry came out,” he told his plate. “Thought he’d break her nose. She was barely home after that.”

“You are a wonderful father, John. Rosie will know nothing but happiness.”

John huffed softly through his nose. “I hope she has no memories of these past few months.”

“If you’d like, I can slip her a special mixture in her formula. Worked well enough on you one boring Wednesday.”

John snorted loudly enough that a few patrons looked in their direction. Sherlock joined in the laughter as John covered his mouth with a napkin. He felt his face go red with mirth, and the tension and slight churn of unhappiness inside him vanished.

The rest of the evening flew by in a haze of wine and laughter, and after so many months of crushing grief and pain and loneliness and hopelessness, he felt ten years younger, more relaxed and contented than he could remember being in a long time. Sherlock regaled him of stories when he had rubbed catnip all over Mycroft’s new shoes and bag so that when he turned up at Parliament on his first day as an intern, he had been followed by half of the city’s stray cats. John’s eyes were watering with mirth, as were Sherlock’s as he went on to tell about the day Lestrade had been kidnapped by Mycroft, back when Sherlock started working for the Met, and Lestrade was twitchy, jumpy, and snapped at everyone for the rest of the day.

“How long ago was that?” John asked, when he could finally catch his breath enough to take a cleansing sip of water.

“Oh God, must be ten years now,” Sherlock sighed, rubbing his eyes and grinning deliriously.

“Ten years…” John shook his head. “I was in Afghanistan.” He sighed and sat back, full but not uncomfortably so. “What was your first case with Lestrade? How did you two meet?”

Sherlock’s smile faded slightly. “He might have… arrested me a little for public intoxication. I was a bit high. But while he was driving me to the Met, I solved a case he’d been stumped on for weeks. As usual.”

“Huh,” John said, twisting his mouth. “Why don’t we save that one for later, and you tell me how you secured a free pass to Angelo’s for life.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said, sitting up a bit straighter, “now _that_ was fun. It was a would-be serial killer, and Angelo was the wrong suspect. That part’s all boring. No no, the actual case itself was wonderful!” And Sherlock regaled the tale to John while the candle glowed lower, through one more glass of wine each while Angelo boxed up their leftover food, and the outside grew dark and one by one the restaurant patrons all started leaving, until a particularly loud laughing fit made John realize that they were one of the few people left dining.

“Christ, I hadn’t realized the time,” John said, checking his watch. “I told the sitter I’d be out till midnight.”

“Really?” Sherlock looked pleasantly surprised. “So late on a Tuesday?”

“It’s ten right now, and I’m not too knackered yet. Are you?”

“Not in the least.”

“Hmm. Fancy a nightcap?”

“Certainly. Baker Street?”

John grinned. “Yes.”

***

Twenty minutes later, they were lazing in their respective chairs across from each other, a fire crackling in the grate, wine simmering warmly in their bellies. Each held a small measure of whiskey in their glasses, relaxed in their seats, enjoying the warmth and the quiet and the company.

“She’s sleeping better,” John said, leaning his head back against his seat and sighing. “Rosie. Got my first full-night’s sleep last night. Didn’t have to get up once.”

“I know.”

“How?”

“The circles under your eyes are vanishing. And you haven’t touched your shoulder yet this evening.”

John’s smile faded. He turned his head slightly to look at the fire burning, soft and warm and glowing. He took another sip of the whiskey, relishing in the burn as it made its way through his body.

“It was the guilt,” he admitted. “I couldn’t sleep for the guilt.”

Sherlock watched him silently, half his face in darkness, the other cast in the golden glow of the fire, impassive and expressionless. Just watching. Listening.

“With Mary,” John clarified, looking at his glass, twinkling with each flicker of the flames. “The guilt of cheating, even if it was just texting. What kind of man cheats when he’s just become a father? But then I’d rationalize with ‘What kind of person lies about her entire life to her husband’? I’d tell myself my lies were minor, compared to hers.”

John went quiet, and Sherlock didn’t say anything.

“I loved her,” he said quietly. “I did. But I shouldn’t have been married to her. But then I wouldn’t have Rosie. So it couldn’t have been a mistake. It just…”

“It is what it is,” Sherlock murmured again, his voice so low and soft that John could pretend he’d imagined it.

“I just… I keep thinking that… if you hadn’t come back, then maybe we would have been happy together.”

Sherlock made an aborted movement, as if to take a sip of his whiskey, but couldn’t quite find the strength to bring the glass to his lips, so instead cradled it on his lap. He seemed unable to look at John.

“And I am so, so glad that you came back,” John finished.

Head still bowed, Sherlock’s eyes flickered up to look at John.

“I was so glad to have you back, and thought maybe I could have a semblance of our life together, because living with you here was… they were some of the best years of my life. But it also felt unfair to Mary. We’d been forming our own lives together. And so… I grew to resent her. Because I felt like I _had_ to be with her, when really…” John paused, and shook his head, looking down at his glass. “Mary helped me with my grief after you left. Made me feel I could be happy again. And then you came back, and I wasn’t happy with just Mary, and then I couldn’t trust her. And for some reason… some godforsaken, nonsense, _irrational_ reason, I trust you. Even though you’ve lied just as much as Mary.”

“I will never lie to you again, John,” Sherlock cut in, sitting up straight, his eyes burning into John’s across from him. “Never. I had no choice, then. I had to…” John saw Sherlock’s throat bob as he paused. He lifted his glass and took a large drink from his glass, his throat bobbing again. He lowered the glass, cradling it in his lap again. “There were three snipers. Moriarty had three snipers. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, you.”

John felt the blood drain from his face.

“I have withstood many trials in my life, but your death would be the one I could not pass. I cannot bear losing you.” Sherlock huffed and glanced down at his pockmarked arm. “I do not think I would survive that.”

John stood suddenly, setting his glass down. Sherlock craned his neck to watch as John approached him, and bent down right in front of him. They were close… closer than he’d ever come before, their faces were breathing on each other, and then John’s lips were on Sherlock’s, gentle and sure. His eyes were closed, but he felt Sherlock freeze. Then a slight movement of lips, a small adjustment of comfort or reciprocation, and John pulled away.

Sherlock sat in his chair, tense, chest high as if holding his breath, mouth slightly open, eyes glassy.

“If it’s not good,” John said gently, “you can delete. And I’ll drink the memory away tonight so that tomorrow morning, we can continue as we are.”

“It’s good, John.” Sherlock sounded choked.

John grinned, and leaned in to kiss him again, and this time, Sherlock responded with vigor. John had to drop to his knees before Sherlock’s chair, lest Sherlock’s enthusiastic response make him fall backward. It was messy, awkward, inexperienced yet desperate. Sherlock couldn’t seem to settle on one part of John’s mouth, and sounded like he was drowning in his quest. John grasped Sherlock’s face in his hands and after some steady firm guidance, Sherlock settled for responding to John’s ministrations, breathing in each other’s air, tasting each other’s whiskey tongues, wrapping their arms around each other’s shoulders as if to crush their very bones together.

When they came up for air, Sherlock was leaning heavily forward on John, foreheads pressed together, John’s knees aching something fierce where they rested on the hard floor. For several long minutes, they didn’t speak… they simply breathed together, looking at each other’s faces from this new angle, seeing their faces like one might see a life-long friend after years away, occasionally exchanging touches on their necks and hair and faces while they tried to breathe and understand this universal shift that had just occurred and with which their lives would now follow.

“I’ve wanted to do that…” Sherlock breathed, “for so long, John.”

“We’re both idiots,” John chuckled.

Sherlock, almost shyly, touched John’s face and shoulders and hair, staring at him in what John thought to be awe.

Feeling himself go cross-eyed, John laughed and pulled back. “What are we doing?” he asked, still running his hands over Sherlock’s cheeks and hair, his neck and shoulders. “What the bloody hell are we doing.”

“You’re leaving?”

John instantly felt Sherlock tense under his hand, actually felt his pulse speed up. Saw his pupils contract.

“God no. I’m merely wondering.

“Thank you.”

John blinked. Thank you? For what, the kiss? For not leaving?

His mouth parted in sudden clarity.

_You’re leaving?_ Sherlock thought John was wondering if they were making a mistake. He’d thought John was pulling away.

John took a good look at his best friend. Saw his swollen lips, his bruised and stitched face, marks that John gave him, the too-protruding cheekbones that Sherlock had given himself from drug use, which he’d done to put himself in grave danger, so John would save him, so he’d save John. Saw the way Sherlock was looking at him, hazy and overwhelmed and focused on him in a way John had never seen him focused on anyone, not even Irene Adler. It was… a disbelieving yearning. And the way Sherlock’s fingers were running over John’s face, into his hair, as if Sherlock couldn’t touch him enough, as if his actions were something he’d wanted to do for…

_I wouldn’t call myself married to my work these days._

_I cannot bear losing you._

_I do not think I would survive that._

_I’ve wanted to do that for so long, John._

And hundreds of other moments were flooding his head. The best man speech. The moment on the wedding dance floor. Sherlock shooting Magnussen. John being Sherlock’s pressure point.

“Jesus,” John breathed. “Sherlock… when… how long…?”

Something in Sherlock’s face flickered. He pressed his lips together, as if he didn’t want to say.

“A long time,” John realized softly.

“Longer than you might think,” Sherlock admitted.

“Bet mine was longer.”

Sherlock gaped at John’s wicked smile. “Wait… you just…” His face, which had been flushed before, turned scarlet at John’s giggle. Then his lips turned up, and a deep laughter spilled out of his chest. John surged forward, capturing Sherlock’s laughs with his lips.

After a while, when their laughs were muffled and exhaled through their noses and around their grinning kisses, John pulled back a bit, his hand on Sherlock’s neck, foreheads pressed together again. “You know, that first night at Angelo’s, I really was trying to figure you out. See whether you might be interested.”

“I knew it, I knew it.” Sherlock said it like it was something that has been in the back of his head for years that he’d forgotten about. He took John’s hands, holding them in both his own, and kissing them with what John felt was unbelievable tenderness. He looked up at John, through open, soft eyes. “Good shot.”

“You wanker,” John laughed, delighted, kissing him again and pulling him into a hug. He felt Sherlock’s fingers digging into his own back and shoulders, felt that curly-haired head plant itself on his shoulder, felt Sherlock’s back expand in an enormous sigh.

John turned to kiss Sherlock’s ear, and Sherlock’s arms tightened around him. After several moments, he pulled back, leaning down to plant a chaste kiss on Sherlock’s parted lips. Knees hurting from so much kneeling, John sat back on his heels while Sherlock straightened up in his chair. Both of John’s hands were grasped in each of Sherlock’s, resting on his knees.

“I don’t think I can go back from this, John,” Sherlock admitted, looking at their joined hands.

“Not bloody likely.” John gave his hands a squeeze, prompting an involuntary smile from Sherlock. “Just… slow, yeah? I want… I want to do this. God, I want it.”

Sherlock’s head ducked as he grinned hard enough to make his eyes crinkle. John felt the expression forming on his own face. He pulled Sherlock’s right hand to his own lips, planting a kiss on it. “I do have Rosie to consider, and you… well, you need to recover. There’s just… Jesus, there’s so much baggage… let’s just go slow so we can do it right.”

“Yes.” Sherlock nodded, eyes boring into John’s. “Anything, John.”

Knees not thanking him, John slowly got to his feet, still holding Sherlock’s hands. “I do have to go right now. I promised the sitter I’d be back by midnight. God, I’d stay, otherwise.”

“It’s fine, John.”

“It’s all fine,” John agreed, and for a moment, the two of them grinned at each other like idiots. John leaned down. “Good night, Sherlock.” He placed his right hand against Sherlock’s cheek and kissed him.

Sherlock’s eyes closed, leaning into both the hand and the kiss. “Good night, John,” he breathed when the kiss ended.

John pulled on his coat, and when he turned to exchange a small smile with Sherlock. As he was leaving, he turned briefly to see Sherlock running slightly shaking fingers over his own lips, staring at John’s chair.

Once he’d hailed a cab and was on his way home, John pulled out his phone.

_Come over for dinner tomorrow? I’ll cook for us. You can feed Rosie._

A moment later, his phone buzzed.

_Using me as a buffer between you and her food-throwing arm? SH_

John grinned.

_Using her as an example of how you should be eating._

_Perhaps we shall just have to practice until I get it right. SH_

_Challenge accepted._

**Author's Note:**

> it happened.


End file.
